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RPlog:Traitor's Redemption
The Hangar is filled with rows of both CompForce and Stormtroopers. Each holding their weapons to their chests in a rigid military posture. Their feet aligned with their shoulders, they stare ahead. There is a wide enough space to allow the crew of the I2SD Inquisitor to properly view what is going on. To suppliment this, the SAGed group has been aligned closer to where the execution will occur, as well as the well known IGN Correspondant, Timo Droja. Holoprojectors have been arranged so that the viewers inside of the Hangar Bay are allowed full uncensored access to this. "Timo Droja reporting here on behalf of the IGN Network. Todays top story.. The trial and execution of a Imperial Traitor. We've been waiting for some time now, as the Traitor is being clothed and cleaned and prepared for his execu-Wait! Here it comes now." The Camera swings around, and the view on the holo's changes to the turbolift. The doors open, and two CompForce Assault soldiers step forwards, then stand beside the door. Then.. The Traitor himself is forced out of the Turbolift, chained and shackled in an almost archaic manner, the CompForce soldiers then stand behind him and push him forwards, ordering him to walk. Moments pass, and then the crisp white uniform of an ISB Agent come out afterwards, a blaster-pistol holster at the Agent's side. Sandor is in a poor state, to say the least. Obvious signs of torture cover his face and hands, and his clothing is grey, but neat. A podium has been assembled, with a small stand for the prisoner to kneel on. The procession begins, and the Prisoner is then forced past the SAGed group. Contrary to when he was enjoying Imperial hospitality firsthand, courtesy of an ISB man whose name Sandor has managed to forget amidst the electric shocks and extended stays in bacta tanks, at this moment Sandor does not weep. Finally, it will all be over, the endless days of pleading vainly to the Force that Ai'kani had worshipped in her life for release at last having some sort of impact. Or more likely, as the traitor realizes, the ISB has simply decided that he knows very little of value, and sees fit to force his barely survivable tenure amongst the cells of the HIMS Inquisitor to abruptly close. As Sandor walks, his eyes close, keenly aware of the fact that he's being watched from far too many angles. The last thing he wants, above even surviving this somehow, is to have to face the men and women he turned both his back and his blaster upon. The Royal Guard Company stood in a crisp formation, their matching scarlet robes, battle armor, and helmets in perfect order. Although ceremonial, the red armor did not hamper movement or fighting. Each held their preferred weapon, the meter-long force pike resting smartly against the right shoulder. Each member stood like an ominous statue, a symbol of the Empire's dreaded might and drive for perfection. The crimson block faced the podium where the execution would take place, the dark visor letting no one know the expressions or faces of the wearer beneath. Hand one been able to however, it would have mattered little, the grim expressions being no more forgiving than the faceless helms. The SAGed group was present for the event, looking their best and lined up as to be close to the prisoner. It was an example for them all, another reminder of the fate that would befall those who turned from the Empire. Their instructor stood tall and proud, his visage mirrored by each student with stoic pose, and meticulous nature. Even the best of them couldn't remain emotionless in the face of such a vile creature, their eyes narrowing upon the walking filth as they tried to keep themselves calm, cool, and composed. Ashden himself was positioned nearest the podium, staring ahead straight as he stood tall. Idly he lamented in his head the babble of the nearby reporter, trying his best to center his thoughts on the issue at hand. He'd caught a glimpse of the weapon and could tell it wasn't what he'd expected, and this brought a slight grin to his face. He trembled slightly despite his attempts to remain still, a tingle in his spine tickling his sadistic senses at the thought of a traitor's blood. The responsibility for hosting this event falls to the Imperial Navy - managing the logistics of this 'event' was no easy task. This is an operational vessel and the extra demands for preparing, arranging and holding this event had to be met in the finest traditions of the Service. It fell to Captain DeVilliers to manage the logistics of this event, which did not come easily to him for he is not a politician, but a soldier. He found the event a little easier to put together because it gave the Navy the opportunity to lead the way in showing how an organised and disciplined branch they were, unlike the Army who he had always held in little regard. The Hangar Bay had been transformed into a suitable arena for the event with any vestiges of the true nature of this part of the vessel hidden awya from view. DeVilliers wasn't one for pomp or ceremony and in private had protested at such a spectacle but had been overruled, atleast the Navy had put on a good spread. Standing silently along with the rest of her squadron, and in the company of the rest of the SFC, Dante is just one officer among many to bear witness to this execution. Her hands are clasped behind her back, face stoic yet her eyes move steadily around to observe everything possible from her vantage point. Vextin Mandor has found the time in his busy schedule as military liaison and adviser to the Commodore to attend the upcoming execution of Sandor Woden, the Imperial traitor. -The- Imperial traitor. He sighs as he sees all the men and women attended here for the execution, even IGNews; they were certainly making a spectacle out of a dirty act. It's not that Vextin is inherently opposed to execution; it's just that he feels the Empire could be better served with someone of Sandor's reputation alive. And 're-educated'. But he's in no position to say anything; he's here to simply witness the event and go back to his work. Folding his hands behind his back, he forms up behind a crowd of crewmen, watching as Sandor is brought out to the hangar by the CompForce and ISB. Apart from their Navy counterparts, the Starfighter corps in line with the rest of the branches was formed up in its ranks nearby, the pilots all being shown the grim fate of those that turn from the Empire. It wasn't something that Krieg really enjoyed, but it was something he did see to making a personal appearance. It reminded him of a great deal of things, and showed his support and solidarity for the faction that he served. It was for the glory of the Empire that such things had to pass, and to his pilots they would know that their Empire was strong. In a way it was a celebration and a curse all in one ceremony. Standing at the front of the SFC formation Krieg keeps his hands clasped behind his back, watching events unfold. Standing next to Krieg, Wolf stood in his usual stance, his arms folded and feet apart to keep him steady. He knew Sandor a long time ago, before the Empire got hairy and when Danik was still beating around. Though he remembered Sandor's actions well and his view on the man had decreased since. "If this is going to be messy, SAG's can clean it up." he said quitely to Krieg as to not let anyone hear it. A smile crossed his face as he looked up at his old friend, paying for his crimes and giving his life back to the Empire. The CompForce Troopers force the Prisoner up the podium, before pushing him to kneel on the Podium. The IGN Cameraman follows, zooming in close to the Prisoner's face before then panning to look towards the advancing ISB Agent, who then ascends the podium to stand beside the kneeling prisoner. He has a head-set and mic, and he then begins to speak. His dull brown eyes staring lifelessly out onto the crowd, his voice the opposite, full of life and zeal. "Citizens of the Empire! Before you stands a admitted Traitor and deserter of the Empire!" He motions down to the prisoner, before he then reaches and pulls out a datapad. He raises it up, his voice coming clear out once again. "The Prisoner has been charged with the following crimes and will now pass judgement. The charges are as follow: Desertion of Duty. Providing information to the Spies of the Republic. Aiding in the Deaths of countless Imperial Citizens and members of the glorious Imperial Military. The Prisoner is hereby charged with High Treason against the Empire. How does the Accused plead?" The Agent reaches down, taking out a small headset. This is placed upon the Prisoner's head, the mic angled towards his mouth. His voice would now be brought to the countless millions of Imperial citizens watching the IGN. Much as Sandor would like to just close his eyes and have it be over with, he knows deep down that not only can he not do that, but that in order for his soul to truly be at peace, he'll have to face his actions, his triumphs and deepest shames, before meeting the grisly end doubtlessly planned for him at last. For over a full year, he had managed to evade his fate, if not capture itself, due to the unfortunate business with Tanis, the one and only Catnip Cadell, whisking him away from Coruscant and straight into Danik Kreldin's hands. But Danik Kreldin is no more, and even his pity for Sandor had limits, as only Ai'kani and Luke's timely intervention, as well as Kreldin's miscalculation in tipping them off about Sandor's location, had saved him before. As far as Sandor knows, with Ai'kani's apparent death during the fall of Coruscant, his chances of survival are high. For about the next several minutes. Though the fact that he doesn't see Tanis, Jal'Dana, Cantrell, Cooper, or any of the others directly affected by his betrayal as his eyes come open once more, the traitor is keenly aware that countless others stare back at him and take his betrayal to heart. Although he had never turned a blaster against any of them in particular, Sandor had done something perhaps far worse, by rejecting the very essence driving the Imperial belief system. Not for a better system, or even for disagreeing with it in any concrete terms, but for sake of the blood quickly rushing through his body, and for the warmth and wholeness he had at last felt in his life during his admittedly brief relationship with Ai'kani. Fate, if such a thing can be said to exist in Sandor's view, had clearly had other plans for her. And though he'd managed to avoid it thus far, clearly it has another plan for him as well. As the mic is placed upon Sandor's head, his eyes scan across the array of people before him, showing a weariness that had filled his body long before he had been outwitted by Jorj Brinaj on Ord Mantell. He'd talked once about this eventuality with Ai'kani, and had tried to convince her of the futility of struggle without a viable escape. And while perhaps not the most attractive option, an escape still very much exists for Sandor. "He pleads guilty. On all charges," Sandor informs all listening, feeling slightly less guilty for the second betrayal by speaking of himself in the third person. But then, what does he really owe to his so-called comrades in the New Republic, who had treated him with suspicion for his actions in the Imperial Army? Only Tal'sin, and the allegedly deceased Ai'kani fill Sandor's heart as he swears off the righteousness of the Republic's cause in exchange for what he believes will be a cleaner death. It had been years since she had donned the armor of the order, yet Arissa found the fit and form all too familiar. She had been surprised when Lord Korolov had asked her to once again shroud herself in the royal armor and robes, but the formation was serving an important purpose. It would act as a reminder to the real cost of betrayal not only to her, but as a glimpse to the horrors that awaited those that had played a part in her fall. Behind her own visited helm, the violet eyes were glued to the procession as the condemned made his way. Like Arissa, the other members of the selected company stood at rigid attention. Most in the formation watched the very same scene unfold, while those stationed at the formations edge performed another function. They watch the crowd, judging and assessing the mood and feeling of the crowd. They were looking for trouble in the mists be it support for the traitor, doubtful at best, or over eager witnesses. Either way, they would be the last line to maintain order should the Storm Troopers be unable to. The Royal Guard was brutal as it was efficient, and there very presence insured there would be no such outbursts. Unlike the rest in the formation, Arissa could truly feel the connection with the crowd, their emotion were like turmoil in her mind. The limited and untrained connection she had with the living force made a jumble of the hate, distain or the act and the man, the compassion, and the blood lust. All these strong emotion swirling around in her mind, it was a bit dizzying, confusing and exciting all at once. This must be yet another reason she was in attendance, yet hidden from view in the protected visage of the Guard. The SAGed students would for the most part remain blissfully unaware of the true causes binding the event, just as they had and would countless others. They were 'enlightened' slaves to an ideal, the perfect prodigy of the Empire. The students felt no compassion or pity for the prisonor as they watched. At the very east the group of eager students appreciated his guilty claim. Not all shreds of honor taught by the Empire had left him, it seemed. Their hands clasped behind their back, they watched inquisitively from their intimate vantage point. It was almost as if they were attending a study, and the subject which had neem vile at first was now interesting. Their instructor similarly observed, though his lifeless eyes had the telltale signs of having viewed similar events many times before. The execution was thrilling so far, Ashden couldn't deny his urge for blood much longer. Levelling his azure gaze upon the face of the man he smiled brightly, taking an intimate pleasure in knowing the fate was seemingly sealed. He felt his right finger twitch behind his back, a reflex as the images of his former classmates came to mind, layering over that of the prisoner. He'd shot them mercilessly, and enjoyed it. Now he stood jealous of the ISB agent near the podium, wanting. In truth, the Imperial Navy had a small part to play in what was unfolding in their midst. They were merely providing the backdrop to events and were facilitating proceedings and acting as hosts. Captain DeVilliers had made representations that the Army be held accountable for...what was the term used? Cleaning up their own messs rather than relying on the Navy to step in as there were more pressing matters at hand. But DeVilliers was, as ever, not atune with the Political capital to be had and was over ruled. He did feel a certain level of satisfaction, perhaps relief, that Sandor was not Navy - how different things could have been. But this was not the first such event he had witnessed in his long career. DeVilliers allowed himself to feel pride at the turnout from the Navy as he cast his gaze over the room and ranks of the assembled branches. He drew in a breath, holding it for a little longer than was normal in anticipation of the coming 'event' he always found such ceremonial executions unsettling. There. At last, he'd finally said it, come what may of his death. Maybe if anything awaits him beyond death, he can at least tell Ai'kani that he was right about himself, that in fact he would and did break. Although he knew that she would certainly not be amused, inwardly Sandor grinned at the thought, having had neither the desire nor the capacity to express the emotion on his actual face after so much trauma in the last few days of his life. In a few final moments, he ignores the last words he will ever hear, and thinks back to the reason why he'd thrown his career, his friends, his mentors, and now his life away. All for the sake of the love of a woman who hadn't even been fully human. A woman who had, however, shown Sandor genuine kindness and reciprocated the feeling to a degree, if perhaps not the exact same we he felt about her. As the bullet slams into his forehead, Sandor loses consciousness, believing with all his might that he will at last find peace. Vextin muses what exactly COMPNOR did to Sandor to get him to admit to his guilt. The tortures are beyond him. He doesn't want to know, and will make sure he never finds himself under COMPNOR's light. "What is going through your mind now, Mr. Woden?" Vextin says to himself, shaking his head. As Sandor admits to his crimes, Vextin turns his gaze upon Dreven, the man who is now pulling the pistol out and bringing it to bear on Sandor. Vextin shudders a bit as the bullet is fired into Sandor's temple... he closes his eye, shaking his head. Turning around, he walks towards the turbolift, ignoring the rallying order from Krieg and enters the turbolift. He doesn't turn back to look at Sandor's limp, bloody form. There had been several adventures Krieg had taken part in with Sandor, and the history went back more than many of the recruits here today. He stood there with stone eyes that fixed his gaze upon him. There were some feelings that should have been to keep Sandor alive, but in the light of what Danik had done there could be no more tolerance. He did not want to see another event like that ever again, and this was befitting end as any. As for the relations Sandor had with Ai'kani, that really enraged him as she was probably the most dangerous woman to face the Empire. She had no understanding of the galaxy and was ignorant, unlistening to wisdom or knowledge. She just did what she wanted and this would strike deeply into her heart. After the guilty charge was passed he orders sternly, "SFC! TenHut!" Coming to attention along with the rest of the corps he alwaits the moment of truth. "The Accused has admitted to all of his crimes. He is condemned as a Traitor to the Empire. May his name be struck off all lists, may all ranks and awards that he was rewarded be stripped. He is now non-existant." The Agent turns to look towards the IGN Cameraman, his voice growing dark, filled with anger. "Let this be a lesson towards all who have turned from the great Empire. Let this be a lesson to those that feel as if they can turn against the ideals of which millions have laid their lives down for. This.. Thing before you has thought that he could shun those lives, he could forget their sacrifice, all in the name of his own interests, his own ends. He swore an oath when he joined the Imperial Army. He swore to uphold the honour that the Imperial Army holds so dear.. And he has insulted that honour. He has spat upon it. But now. Now.. He has shown his willingness to come back to the Imperial fold. To repent for his crimes and for all that he has done wrong. His payment is his life. Let this be a lesson that all will remember." The leather pistol holster is opened, and the archaic weapon is drawn out. It appears antique, yet in working condition. It is a very old design of ballsitic weaponry, grey in colour, yet still showing the signs of technological enhancement, with a laser-sighing system and laser-sculpted design. A true piece of art. The chamber is pulled back and held, and a single bullet is held aloft for the camera. The caliber of the weapon doesn't appear to be much, as the bullet is then inserted and the chamber is reset. The weapon is held up for a moment, then the Agent aims the weapon down with a straight arm. "Glory to the Empire." The Agent's finger pulls on the trigger, and the bullet is ejected from the chamber, the Agent's hand jerking back with the recoil. The bullet gives a sickening thud as the sound of the round echos throughout the hangar bay before dying off. Blood pours freely from the wound in the side of the Prisoner's head, covered up mostly by the hair. The Agent takes the time to kneel down and shut the eyes of the Prisoner, then raises up once again. He raises up a foot, then unceremoniously pushes the Prisoner over onto his back, allowing all to see the Prisoner's face while there is still colour to it. The Agent kneels, picking up the empty bullet casing with gloved fingertips. He holds the bullet for the camera, then his gloved hand covers over the bullet as the pistol is then put away, and the holster is clipped over. The Agent stares towards the Camera passively, before Timo Droja comes onto the camera once again. "And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. The accused has, supposedly, aided in the death of over one thousand of the Stormtrooper Corps, and untold numbers of civillians have died because of his information relayed to the New Republic. He has now payed for his crimes.. This is Timo Droja, IGN Network. Next is the weather in the Imperial Center. Over and out." The Camera holds over the dead body of the prisoner for some time, then it swings away as the picture fades out, replaced by the large symbol of the Empire, doing three full revolutions before that then fades out also. The traitor was finally showing his true nature as an Imperial. Stoic in the face of his demise, Arissa could help but wonder how many others that had committed such crimes would handle it when the time came. Would they cower? Beg for their lives? Soil themselves? Such questions would be left for the ages, as for this case the answer was evident. The member of the Royal Guard unit she was currently assigned to went about their duty, unmoved by the scene unfolding. Each of the crimson warriors performed they duties with exacting perfection, for they were the elite of the elite. Eyes shifted to new position as they watched, waited and intimidated. They were the power in the backdrop, and remained that way. Arissa in the mists of both the formation and the emotions stood, unnoticed. Over! It was over, already?! An outrage for the young man who stood gazing upon the lifeless form, watching the blood seep from the skull cleanly. Ashden blamed the cameras for sparing Sandor such a clean death, his distaste for the nearby celebrity intensifying. The lips of the traitor seemed so sweet, stilled by the fate that had been mercifully offered. Ashden found his tongue grazing over his lips, licking moisture back to them as he stared longingly at the fallen body. His morbid desires tingled at his mind, violence and taboo mixing together erotically. With that, there was little else to do. It was likely that the Navy would clean up the mess, or that COMPNOR would retrieve it within moments. The SAGed class kept up their watch, gaethering together to casually observe the after-procedure. The space being made as others filtered out left them to their lesson - disposal. DeVilliers takes the opportunity to remove his glasses from his face and turn his attention away from the unfolding drama. He removes a bright yellow soft lint cloth from the left breast pocket of his unfirom tunic and then starts to clean the lenses of his glasses. A definite hush falls on teh room, the gentle murmuring of the gigantic vessel appear to stop for an instant as he feels even teh ship recognises what is to happen next. DeVilliers swears he heard the *SNAP* of the holdeter echo across the room as the weapon is unholstered and imagines the weapon being 'loaded' before the trigger is pressed and the fateful result os all to see. He continues to focus on his glases, he ahd seen a lot of death and destruction in his years, but an execution like this, played out for the cameras was soemthign that he never quite managed to reconcile in himself. Then the next instant, ther eit was, all over. The slump to the ground of a body and he repalces his glasses as he turns his attetnion to what must be done next... In on last and final gesture Krieg salutes, it is quick but formal. The respect is given for the man's Imperial service, and the dead always are forgiven for what they are done. The dead can do no more harm. With that done he orders, "SFC, Dismissed!" He himself does not stay but rather he leaves for the turbolift to follow not far behind Vextin. Now that it is over.. The body is covered with a long sheet, and then tagged and bagged by the Assault CompForce troopers. it is then a hauled up. Strangely, in the background of the Hangar, there is a fueled and prepped COMPNOR shuttle. The body is rather hurriedly taken to the ship, before it is placed inside. The Agent gives a formal half-bow to the entire procession visible, and then turns and marches away, stepping over the blood. As he walks, he lifts up a hand and places his hand down onto Ashden's shoulder. He lifts up his other hand, and forces the still-warm bullet casing into Ashden's palm. "For the Empire." He speaks, firmly. Then marches onto the shuttle, which quickly takes off. A gift stilled Ashden's discontentment, his palm wrapping tenderly around the souvenir. The warmth of it was steadily sapped by his cool skin, though the shape would remain in his mind. His fingertips massaged the thing sensually, his hand raising to let him breath in the fresh scent of expended powder. The rest of the hangar seemed to melt away for a few moments as his eyes fell shut, his head tilting back as he let out a long, content sigh. It was just then in his moment of bliss that his instructor interupted him, surprising him with a soft jolt as he and the students payed their last respects and left. Small salutes to the departing body, and Ashden's protective coveting of the item now in hand.